


The Morning After the War Before

by Netgirl_y2k



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-23 19:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11996631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/pseuds/Netgirl_y2k
Summary: Sometimes Root wasn't sure that they hadn't lost the war after all, and that she wasn't living out some digital afterlife in the best simulation the Machine could come up with.





	The Morning After the War Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silveradept](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveradept/gifts).



The murmuring in Root's ear - a hugely simplified feed of the Machine's operations, too indistinct for her to be able to pick out any single function - gradually increased in volume, pulling her from sleep.

Ever since the fall of Samaritan had freed the Machine to speak directly to Root again the feed of information to her cochlear implant had been a constant hum; Root thought that maybe She found it as comforting as Root did. 

Root rolled over and saw Shaw sitting on the pink felt chair, already dressed and lacing up her boots.

"Well, morning, _darlin'_ ," said Root, yawning and tucking her arms behind her head.

Root's southern accent always slipped through when she was sleepy... and when she was trying to make Sameen roll her eyes in that way that Root liked.

"This place is ridiculous," said Shaw, not for the first time, and sounding more resigned than anything else. 

They were in Root's makeshift bedroom in the subway station; fuzzy purple pillows, pink felt chair, lava lamp, and all.

"You weren't complaining last night," said Root with an early morning leer that was more hopeful than expectant.

Shaw didn't talk much about her time as Samaritan's prisoner, but it had been bad enough to make her ready to blow her own brains out in front of Root; it had been bad enough to make her willing to sleep in a single bed with another person and a bright purple duvet.

At least, Shaw spent about half her nights in the subway, and Root was making a particular point not to ask where she went the rest of the time.

During a long, freezing night perched on a rooftop, peering through a sniper scope, the Machine had tried to distract Root from the cold and the fact that she wasn't allowed to just shoot their target by telling her that Root's understanding of romance had stopped developing the night that Hanna had been killed, and that she had all the relationship instincts of a twelve year old, which even coming from the mouth of God Herself, _ouch._

Even more embarrassingly, Fusco, who had taken a bullet covering Shaw in a shootout with some Samaritan goons, and who, weird as it was, actually seemed to _get_ Shaw had clapped Root on the shoulder and said: _try not to scare the horses, okay, cocoa puffs?_

The whole idea of _maybe someday_ had seemed like pretty big deal when they'd been facing the AI apocalypse, and either of them could have been taken down in a hail of bullets at any moment; it was trickier now that they were trying to live it, and neither of them really knew how. 

Still, Root wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Come on," said Shaw. "You should get dressed. Reese will be here soon." 

Root pulled on a pair of pants, held a shirt to her face for a sniff, and screwed up her nose in distaste; she really wished that they'd found a way to install a shower down here.

Always watching over her Analogue Interface, the Machine's voice in her ear gave her the address of a hotel two blocks away and the name of conference attendee who bore more than a passing resemblance to Root; if she went to the reception desk and claimed to have lost her key she could use the shower in the room. 

Root didn't _have_ to sleep in the subway, of course. Their unexpected victory over Samaritan had given them access to Harold's tech billions and Root's untraceable, ill-gotten hundreds of millions. 

Even Reese, who was one vow of poverty away from a full-blown martyr complex, admitted that saving people was made easier by virtually unlimited funds. 

But in addition to playing understudy Admin while Harold was in Italy, Root had wanted to hunker down for a bit while her tiny human brain caught up to the fact that not only had the won their war with Samaritan, but they had somehow all survived it.

The only thing stopping Root from nesting completely, and the thing that was probably saving her relationship with Shaw, was that they had never found a satisfactory way to get running water down here. 

There was the thud of footsteps on the stairs; Reese could be a pretty stealthy guy when he wanted to be, but since Root and Shaw had taken up their intermittent cohabitation in the subway he didn't often want to be. 

Reese had three coffees, two black for himself and Shaw and a milky latte for Root, as well as a box of pastries. He made a point of passing the box over Shaw's head to offer Root the first pick.

Shaw scowled. Of all the things that had happened while she'd been a prisoner of war, the thing she found hardest to believe was not that Harold had affected an Irish accent and sung _We're Not Going To Take It_ in front of a room full of wedding guests, but that Root and Reese were getting along now.

Sometimes Root and John even played up their new friendship to Shaw, although they'd never told her that it had been forged in the crucible of them torturing their way through a New England town searching for her. 

Root had even heard Shaw grumbling to Bear: _...what are they up to? All tall and friendly._

Root took a bear claw, and Reese asked "Do we have a new number?"

"It's early yet, big guy." Root punched Reese's shoulder, and Shaw scratched at the skin behind her ear in confusion.

A morning in New York without any irrelevant numbers didn't mean that a dozen people wouldn't be planning to murder each other by lunch. And there were always the relevant numbers, not that they had to worry about those; grateful to have been released from the Samaritan black site Control was overseeing the Machine's reintegration into the government's counterterrorism agencies. 

"If you're looking for something to do, you could always go and see Fusco," Root told Reese. "He still has questions about what was happening during that last fight with Samaritan."

Even without knowing exactly what he'd been up against Lionel had been vital during the battle against Samaritan. He deserved to know the truth, and every simulation the Machine had run had shown that he would take it better than they had any right to expect. 

Plus, if there were going to be any punches thrown, then at least they would be thrown at Reese.

Reese's cell phone vibrated. Root cocked her head, listening to the Machine, and announced, "It's Harold," before Reese could pull the phone from his pocket. 

"Hello, Harold," said Reese. "How's Italy? How are things going with Grace?"

"Italy is beautiful," said Finch. "Grace is... Well, I lied to her every single day of our relationship and ultimately faked my own death, that's not the sort of thing I can expect her to forgive."

"Chin up, Harry--" said Root; Harold's silence was taken aback, he must not have realised he was on speakerphone "--there was only a 12% chance that Grace would be talking to you after this amount of time. The Machine says you just have keep trying and she'll come around eventually."

"God," muttered Shaw under her breath, "is there anything in our lives that your Machine doesn't run simulations of?"

Root shrugged; she knew that since her time as Greer's lab monkey Shaw had disliked the very idea of the simulations, but Root took great comfort in knowing that the Machine was running ahead of them, ready to catch them if they fell.

When the Machine had been trying to game out a way to win She had run simulations where Root died and this spurred Harold into action, simulations where John had died and this forced his hand. There had been simulations where Harold died, making Root willing to sacrifice the Machine. There had probably been simulations where Shaw died, but the Machine hadn't shared any of those with Root, knowing that to Root Shaw's death wasn't just an undesired outcome but an unacceptable one; it was hardwired into her code. 

Root let the back of her hand brush against Shaw's, smiling when Shaw didn't move away.

Sometimes Root wasn't sure that they hadn't lost the war after all, and that she wasn't living out some digital afterlife in the best simulation the Machine could come up with.

She nudged Shaw and tipped her head towards the subway entrance. They left Reese and Finch comparing relationship advice that sounded terrible even to Root's stunted sense of romance.

Really, it didn't matter what Reese said, because Root already knew what was going to happen. The Machine had run the simulations: Grace would eventually forgive Harold and return with him to New York, where he'd resume working the irrelevant numbers with Reese and Shaw. The Machine would deem Her Analogue Interface to have recovered from the last few years frantic pace to Her satisfaction, and Root would be retasked.

Samaritan was no more, but there was still work to do; the Machine had been busy recruiting.

"I was thinking," said Root, chipper tone of voice not entirely masking her nerves, "that when Harold comes back you and I could take a romantic little road trip?" Shaw grunted noncommittally. "DC? Los Angeles? Boston? Vegas?"

Harper Rose and her band of merry men; Zoe Morgan operating out of LA now; Dani Silva transferred to the Boston PD; Leon Tao in Vegas. All working for the Machine, whether they knew it or not. 

"Get your personal god to shell out for some decent places to stay and I'm in," said Shaw. "I'm not sleeping in a car with you unless someone's life is at stake."

Root grinned, leaning against Shaw, and listening to the voice of the Machine in her ear.


End file.
